Saving Cameron
by RhiannonWrites
Summary: Maybe the fear of HIV isn't the only thing that can drive Cameron to drugs. Will the real addict in her life have any effect on her, or will their catastrophic collisions end the way they always do? Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I am a House/Cameron fan...and a House/Wilson fan...and a House/Cuddy fan...you know, basically, if it involves House and one of the more interesting, complicated characters, I'm good. However, I believe that the general tone of the show, when it comes to the personal stuff, is angsty and drama-ridden, and so my stories tend to reflect this tone. So, while this is a H/Cam story, it is not full of love and pink bunnies. Just thought I'd put that out there. I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: These lovely talented people are all mine. Except in reality, which has yet to reshape itself to my liking.

* * *

Cameron stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, inches away from her reflection. It had been years since she had gone to a good club—med school had a tendency to keep one buried in the books, to put it mildly, and she had relinquished all hope of a social life to make sure her grades elevated her to the attention of some of the finest hospitals in the country.

Now, however, she was at the level—if not precisely in the place—for which she had worked and fought for so many years, and she occasionally had an evening free to occupy herself however she liked. Normally, she curled up with a book, went out to see an interesting film, or even resorted to television. But her nerves were on fire tonight, and she had hailed a cab in a near-delirium, finding herself in one of the darkest, loudest clubs in Princeton.

As she stared at her face, taking in the near-blackness of her eyes, pupils dilated until the thin rim of blue-green was practically invisible, she tried to hold back the trembles writhing along her skin. She had tried meth for the first time after an HIV-infected patient had splattered her face with his blood, and had wound up dragging Chase into bed with her. Shaken and exhausted the next day, she had vowed never to try the drug again. House's obvious disdain and quick deduction of her intimate moments with Chase had played their own role in the decision.

But the past few weeks had taken their toll on her sanity. House was practically panting after his ex, and Chase and Foreman seemed convinced that the two had become involved again. The very thought made her queasy and furious. But when Stacy had vanished from the hospital, and Wilson had taken to stomping the halls and casting scornful looks in House's direction, and House himself had withdrawn to the point of ignoring any of the cases she slid across his desk…something had snapped inside her. She needed the mindlessness, the deliciousness, the forgetfulness. And she had found it, in just one more night. One more dose. One more time.

Now she was gazing at her reflection in the mirror of the club bathroom, her brain assaulted with drug-induced haze, her blood throbbing in time with the deafening dance music separated from her by a thin metal door. She raked her gaze down her body—thin black silk tank top with tiny straps that kept sliding from her shoulders, tight jeans she could barely move her hips in, pale skin faintly bruised under her eyes—and shoved a hand through her wavy dark hair. Fuck House, fuck PPTH, fuck everything and everyone. She was going to _dance_.

Cameron shoved the door open and lost herself in the mass of hot, writhing bodies, stopping when she had no desire to push through anymore and letting herself move. The music was beautiful, rhythmic, enticing, and she flowed with it and against it, hips and arms and neck and hair. She felt arms encircle her waist and leaned back into the body behind her: solid, warm, masculine. She did not even bother meeting the eyes of her new partner, just pressed her ass back into his hips and moved, laughing when his hands became bold and slipped up over her breasts, pushing him away with a soft sound and careless eyes when he spun her around and tried to kiss her. He was bulky, too muscular, and his eyes were a little wild, and she moved away into the crowd, losing him easily.

Minutes swam by like hours, and hours like minutes, as she writhed against strangers and allowed her body to drive away her mind. Hands slid, clutched, caressed, and her hips were uncontrollable, and her hair obscured her vision. She had a vague sense of being out of control, out of herself, and she delighted in it even as it terrified her. When she could no longer move for lack of breath and a parched mouth, she fought her way over to the bar and signaled for water, not trusting the mix of the drugs surging through her system and any kind of alcohol. She gulped down the glass given to her gratefully and slid along the length of the bar, until she slumped with her back to the wall. She closed her eyes.

A body pressed itself to hers, hips to shoulders, and she felt the rough scratch of stubble against her cheek and neck. She was about to open her eyes to tell off the man accosting her when an inhalation brought a familiar scent to her. She twitched a little, dragging her hands up along the back of the man leaning against her body.

"House?" she asked, touching her lips to the shell of his ear. Lips brushed against her cheek and an exhalation stirred her slightly damp hair.

"You're high again." No _hello, nice to see you, enjoying your dancing_. Just _you're high again._ She groaned and pushed him back until their eyes met.

"What's your point?" she demanded, her eyes too shifty and fluttering to focus calmly on his face. House curled his strong fingers around her elbows and shook her once, until she dragged her eyes back to his by force of will.

"I thought it was a one time thing."

"What, you're the only one who can abuse drugs on a regular basis?" she retorted, forced into raising her voice now that they were no longer pressed together. House's lip arched in a sneer.

"At least my drugs are legal."

"Your use isn't," she snapped, and jerked away from him. She just wanted to be free, to move, to feel and forget how to feel. House standing in front of her was not conducive to any of those things.

"Where are you going, Cameron?" He yanked her back into his body, right side flush against his chest. Her hip was digging into him slightly, and he winced.

"I want to dance," she said hotly. Her face was flushed, and she licked her lips as her eyes flicked wildly over his face, his arms, his mouth. House pushed her away a little and lifted his cane.

"Not my deal," he shouted, and started to limp away. At the last moment, Cameron caught his wrist.

"You can stand still," she said loudly, as the music and lights pulsed over and around them. "I'll dance for you."

House swept his gaze down her body, and she knew he was tempted. Knew that the baser side of himself that he rarely kept hidden was slipping to the surface again. But he gave her a little push. "No, thanks. I like my strippers less naïve-looking."

"Whatever." Cameron slipped in-between bodies until she was nearly lost in the crowd. She settled near a girl with brilliant magenta hair who was clearly under the influence of something herself—most likely ecstasy, House mused, watching as the girl wound herself around Cameron and began kissing down her neck. Cameron looked startled and mildly horrified, but House was both amused and a little aroused. He might not dance, but he might…watch.

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Chapter two, more from House's point of view than Cameron's. (And an extra note: I am posting the other three chapters to this today for a fellow writer who misses my one shots. Everyone seemed to want chapter stories and continuations, so I tried breaking down a few stories like this one and 'Nightmares' into chapters. Maybe...I'll stop that now. Anyway, chauncey, this is for you.)

* * *

He had been watching Cameron for a while now, though she would be embarrassed to know that. After he had shocked her into allowing a mouth swab so he could get her HIV test done—the one she kept studiously avoiding—by declaring his love for her, she had spent the rest of the day in a pensive and angry mood, watching him when she thought he wasn't looking, and refusing to speak to him even when he cornered her in the hall and told her to quit pouting. The look she had given him had been so frustrated, so fraught with emotions he wanted to ignore, that he had limped off before she could decide she wanted to say something, after all. Everything had gone to hell in a hand-basket with Stacy, and he had withdrawn to try and get back a little of his sanity, rebuild some of his walls.

Women really sucked.

But then he had caught a glimpse of Cameron outside one of his favorite adult establishments—because who doesn't love a stripper when the love of your life can't be in your life?—her eyes shifty as she exchanged money for something else with a dark-haired man on the corner across the street. And he immediately knew. She was going to use again, get high again. And when Cameron was high, if the past indicated anything, she got horny. So he decided to see if he couldn't follow her this time, make sure she didn't do something stupid like sleeping with Foreman. Or Cuddy. And then he had gotten distracted by thoughts of her with Cuddy, and had nearly missed her stumbling from her apartment into a taxi.

Now he was stuck in this blaring excuse for a dance club, watching her get fondled and licked by a tweaker on X, and finding himself just a little hard at the thought of the body that had been pressed against his just a few moments before. Sure, Cameron had hugged him before, but…but being pressed against silk and tight jeans and hot, slick skin was a little different than embracing an ingénue doctor in a lab coat.

He shifted a little against the wall he had sunk into, grinning slightly as Cameron gently pushed away her overly affectionate dance partner and began to move, slim hands sinking into the masses of her dark hair and lifting it from her neck, which was arched back as her eyes drifted closed. He swallowed as her hips moved in a slow circle, flinched as her hands dropped from her hair to her hips, sliding slowly up her stomach to cup her breasts, and then up over her shoulders and into her hair again. He had watched her dancing for long enough tonight to know that, while her usual movements were graceful and unconsciously sensual, the way she was dancing now was specific, erotic. Directed.

At him.

Not for the first or the thousandth time, House cursed the chunk of muscle absent from his right thigh, the ever-present cane that served as a reminder of what he was not, what he would never be again. Not that he had been a connoisseur of dance clubs prior to the infarction, but the sight of a beautiful woman was oddly inspirational, and right now that beautiful woman was dancing. With a string of silent curses lingering on his tongue, he gripped his cane until his knuckles were white and aching, then turned and limped for the exit, pressing the cane down hard on the toes of anyone who did not shift out of his way as he passed through their heated, enmeshed bodies.

The air outside was cool and tainted with cigarette smoke, and House shook two pills out of his Vicodin bottle and sucked them down while eyeing the alley he found himself in with distaste. Probably about time to haul his forty-something ass home and jerk off to memories of brunettes in silk with glowing skin and hungry eyes.

"House? Wait."

Speak of the devil.

* * *

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: This chapter is once again more from Cameron's perspective. Be forewarned...angst ahead.

* * *

Cameron watched him leave and felt something in her twist at the idea that a brief, sarcastic encounter was all that would come of this night. She hurried through the crowds after him, sprawling into the dimly lit alley unsteadily. House was leaning against the brick wall, swallowing a few pills. She moved closer, trying not to fall over her own feet.

"House? Wait."

He lifted clear blue eyes to her face, and she trembled a little inside. "Are you just going to leave?"

He raised a sarcastic eyebrow. "Little crowded in there. Little hard to get a good lap dance. Oh, yeah—and you're high."

"How did you find me?" She did not want to know, but she needed to.

"Saw you hanging with your homeys on the street corner. Figured you might need a babysitter." House raked his eyes over the sheen of sweat on her skin, the fine trembling in her hands. "I wasn't wrong."

"Then why are you leaving?" God, could she speak to him without desperation oozing out of every pore?

He smirked. "Last time you got wasted, you boned one of my other minions. I thought you might not be able to resist sleeping your way right to the top. Of course, the fact that you're unwisely obsessed with me might have something to do with that assumption."

"I am not obsessed with you."

House tapped the side of her calf with his cane. "You are really, really wrong." Something in his gaze softened, and Cameron found herself inching closer, wanting to lose herself in the gentleness on his face. "Look, _Doctor_ Cameron, go home. Take a long bath and have yourself a wittle cry about whatever's making you so goddamned sad that you have to buy meth on the street corner. Go to bed, sleep all day tomorrow—because we sure as hell don't need Detoxing Barbie diagnosing patients—and come back in when you're ready to deal with your problems like an adult."

Cameron snapped. "Right. You're one to lecture me on the appropriate way of handling personal issues. How many Vicodin have you had today, House? Ten? Twelve? You're an addict."

"You're on your way."

She stared at him, all the softness gone from his face, and felt dark heat swimming up from a depth inside her she had forgotten. She surged forward, grabbing his tee shirt in her hands and twisting, and yanked his mouth down to hers.

The kiss was hard, unyielding, as Cameron sought to devour and House tried to resist. Lips pressed together, and then teeth, as her hands slid from his shirt to the back of his neck, forcing him against her mouth. She pressed her tongue to his lips, demanding entrance, and he responded with a swift nip to the tip of her tongue that had her withdrawing briefly with a yelp of pain. Almost as quickly, however, she dove back in, her nails digging into the soft skin of his neck, her thigh pressing itself roughly between his and nearly knocking him off-balance. Dropping his cane, House put both hands on Cameron's shoulders and shoved her backward, panting.

"Knock it the fuck off," he spat out. "I'm not Chase. You can't accost me just because you're horny and drugged up."

"Why don't you want me?" she practically screamed, some tiny part of her whispering _this is crazy, stop it, you'll regret this._ She could not stop the words coming out of her mouth any more than she could have stopped breathing.

"Because you're _high_," House growled.

"So, if I were sober, you'd kiss me back?" Her hands were on her hips, her eyes a little wild and unfocused.

"No. If you were sober, you wouldn't be kissing _me_."

She advanced on him until his back was pressed against the cold brick wall, placing her palms against the wall on either side of his head. "Just tell me, House. Why am I not good enough for you? Why can't you stop thinking the worst of me, stop assuming I'm lying, stop thinking that my feelings for you can't be genuine, that they have to be the result of some big fucked-up emotional issue that I have?"

"Because they're not genuine," House said slowly, almost gently again. "Because they are the result of a fucked-up emotional issue that you have."

"Are you incapable of loving anyone?" she asked helplessly.

"No," he said coolly, pushing her back again. "I just don't love you."

Tears sprang to her eyes, hot and stinging. "And you never will."

He nodded. "I never will."

She turned on her heel and ran, heedless of direction, into the chilly night.

* * *

TBC...because House has one more scene.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Mini-chapter. More like an epilogue...except it sort of contains the whole point. Whee!

* * *

House watched Cameron run, tears streaking down her flushed cheeks, and sighed heavily. So young, so foolish—she had no idea what she was trying to get herself into. What he was saving her from.

He limped in the direction of the street, hailing a cab wearily. He knew her, all right. He knew what she wanted, what drew her to him like a moth to a flame. He did not want to be saved, to be fixed, to be adored as he withered away. He wanted to be left alone. Occasionally, he wanted sex with a faceless stranger. And he wanted to spare Cameron the discovery of who he truly was.

Tomorrow, she would wake up in her own bed, hung over and horrified, and probably try to drag herself into work despite his cautions to the contrary. She would twitch and sweat and stare at him blankly, angrily, and eventually she would want to talk about the whole thing. Analyze it; find answers to all the whys. Typical woman.

And he would turn her away.

It was better this way, and some day she would thank him. Thank him for saving her from a pointless, devastating relationship; thank him for (hopefully) getting her off of the self-destructive wheel her little hamster legs were running her on.

Until then, he'd just be House. And she'd get over him soon enough.

He swallowed another Vicodin, gave directions to the cabbie, and leaned back against the cool leather seat, letting his eyes drift shut.

Someday she'd thank him.

* * *

FIN


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